


Pretty Ain't A Job.

by orphan_account



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:38:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan’s sixteen and kicking around skateparks with Spencer. He’s stretching his ears and not calling back the girls who put their phone numbers in his contact list after they hook up at the parties he’s technically not invited to. He’s wearing shirts that are too tight, with stupid band designs cracking across the chest, and jeans that are even tighter. He’s throwing his cigarette butts out of his car’s window on the way to school, and he’s certainly not considering calling back the modeling scout who slips him her card when he’s confronted during an afternoon skate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Ain't A Job.

Ryan’s sixteen and kicking around skateparks with Spencer. He’s stretching his ears and not calling back the girls who put their phone numbers in his contact list after they hook up at the parties he’s technically not invited to. He’s wearing shirts that are too tight, with stupid band designs cracking across the chest, and jeans that are even tighter. He’s throwing his cigarette butts out of his car’s window on the way to school, and he’s certainly not considering calling back the modeling scout who slips him her card when he’s confronted during an afternoon skate.

 

At first, the guys had elbowed each other and pointed at the woman who looked out of place at the piece of shit skatepark the council refused to clean up. Eventually, she smiled and walked over to the group, singling out Ryan and introducing herself. Her name was Greta and she worked for an agency based in Los Angeles, but, if he was interested, she would be able to get Ryan some work out here in Vegas before he turned eighteen. He’d need his parents permission, of course, but he should definitely consider it.

 

He nods and politely thanks her, saying that he’ll think about it. The smirk on his lips tells her he won’t, but she can’t stop the smile from spreading across her face when she sees him actually put the card in his wallet that’s made of more duct tape than anything else.

 

The guys wolf whistle when Ryan skates back toward them, but he rolls his eyes and tries to hide the smirk as he finally lands a trick he’d been practicing all week.

 

**

 

Ryan’s seventeen and publishing his own zine. He scribbles the articles out by hand, his writing slanty and almost indecipherable, but he gets good feedback from the kids who read it. Jac, his friend, supplies the drawings and photos for each issue. She doesn’t even laugh when he asks for her opinion on everything from prose and angsty poetry to analytical essays about patriarch society.

 

Now, his jeans are just as tight as they were when he was sixteen, but he’s wearing button-ups and vests rather than the My Chemical Romance shirts that sit in dusty boxes in the garage. All of his friends are applying to college, he guesses, since he hasn’t really spoken to them for months.

 

He admits to Spencer that he’d started researching modeling agencies online, but hadn’t really gotten around to looking at college. Spencer throws a grape at his head and says, “You’re being an idiot,” but doesn’t push it.

 

Ryan doesn’t know if he’d said anything at all because he wanted Spencer to push it, or if he was checking that he was doing the right thing.

 

**

 

Ryan’s eighteen and eating the eggs and bacon his father had cooked him for breakfast. His mom’s long gone. He doesn’t even know if she’s still in the city, but the missed calls he receives from her late at night suggests she isn’t. His mother never was one to grasp the concept of time differences across states.

 

So, without her in the picture, it’s just Ryan and his father when he opens his mouth, still chewing a piece of bacon and says, “So, I don’t think I’m going to college.”

 

Not really paying attention, his father replies, “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” and then, in an angrier tone, “What did you just say?”

 

So, Ryan’s told him and he’s packing his bags and calling the modeling scout from Spencer’s home telephone. He got a leather wallet for his eighteenth birthday, but, for whatever reason, still transferred the agency’s card when he changed everything over.

 

Greta doesn’t remember him, but she agrees to take the meeting anyway. He turns up in a pair of pinstripe pants and a deep v-neck. Greta takes one look at him and smiles wide, “A few years late, aren’t you?”

 

Ryan mumbles an apology, and he’s not quite sure why he’s apologizing, but Greta’s laughing anyway and promising that she can book him a gig by the end of the week. Ryan chokes on his mouthful of water.

 

**

 

Ryan’s nineteen and actually starting to get paid pretty well for the work he does. He still lives at Spencer’s house, Spencer’s parents had accompanied him to his first few shoots and offered to drive him to the studios that were out of town when he needed to fill his portfolio, but they’re looking into getting a place within the next few months.

 

Spencer studies at UNLV and comes home at weekends, but he keeps tabs on Ryan’s online presence and makes sure to email/call/text/harass Ryan whenever he does a particularly embarrassing shoot.

 

Spencer still has the photo of Ryan, shirtless and with birds painted in makeup down the side of his cheek, tucked away in his wallet. It’d been the first shoot Ryan had ever done – the shoot booked an hour after Ryan had taken the meeting with Greta – and makes sure to show everyone on campus whenever Ryan comes to any of the college parties.

 

Sometimes, Jac comes with Ryan, but lately she’s been more distant. They’d spent a lot of time together, Jac and Ryan, after Jac had decided she wanted to be a stylist and _oh,_ she just happened to be on most of the shoots Ryan was booked for. Though, they seemed to get pretty distant when she accidentally walked in on one of the male models going down on Ryan backstage.

 

Spencer only knows because that’s how Ryan decided to come out to him.

 

“So, uh,” Ryan had said, “Jac walked in on me and someone today.”

 

“Oh?” Spencer had said, and at the time he hadn’t particularly cared or even been surprised, Ryan always had been a fan of sleeping around.

 

“Yeah,” Ryan confirmed, but the funny lilt in his voice told Spencer there was more to it.

 

Spencer even paused his game of Halo.

 

“Yeah,” Ryan repeated, as if he was agreeing with something he’d simply forgotten to verbalize, “I think Jac and I are done.”

 

Jac and Ryan had slept together. As far as Spencer knew, they’d lost their virginity to each other in what had probably been a cliché scene taken straight from a coming-of-age film. He didn’t know the particulars, but he was there when Ryan was just “you know, running errands,” and buying dozens of vanilla-scented candles from Yankee Candle.

 

Ryan had been thrown when he first found out Jac wasn’t being faithful. But, they seemed to come to some kind of arrangement. Again, Spencer didn’t know the particulars.

 

“I thought you weren’t exclusive?”

 

“Well, no, but she sort of saw me having sex with William.”

 

Spencer’s first thought was, “Sort of? Like, she only caught a glimpse of you having sex, or ‘sort of’ as in you weren’t completely having sex?” and then, “Oh, William? That’s a funny name for a girl.”

 

And then Ryan had curled in on himself like he was actually worried Spencer was never going to talk to him again, so Spencer unpaused his game of Halo and said, “Come on, let’s play.”

 

He let Ryan win the round, and didn’t ask any questions when Ryan crawled into his bed later that night, unable to sleep.

 

**

 

Ryan’s twenty and packing up his bags, rolling his eyes as Spencer yells from the next room, “Hurry the fuck up, the cab’s out the front. I can’t believe you’re not ready to move to fucking California. You’re going to die out there, you fucking asshole.” 

 

So, he’s moving to LA at the advice of Greta, and he only has three t-shirts packed and a few pairs of boxers. He hasn’t slept in a few nights either, so what? He stretches and reaches for the hoodie that’s laying on his bed. There’s a questionable stain across his chest, and he wouldn’t be able to tell you whose fault it was or, even, who the bodily fluids belonged to.

 

They miss their flight, but are able to book one for just a few hours later. They sit in the terminal, Spencer not really reading the newspaper in his hands as much as he’s glaring over the top of it and shaking his head in Ryan’s general direction.

 

“What are you going to do? Do I need to get mom to come out and stay with you? Cause, I will. I totally will until I graduate.”

 

Spencer’s not moving out to LA with Ryan, a decision which Ryan had contended against until well… he hadn’t really stopped fighting it yet. He was hoping the ‘magic of LA’ or whatever the fuck people said about the city would woo Spencer into not returning to Summerlin.

 

“I’ll be fine,” Ryan said, but he wasn’t even fine now at the thought of being alone in a foreign city, so how could he be fine when the time came for him to actually be alone?

 

Spencer looked over at the bags that hung beneath Ryan’s eyes, and the dirty hoodie that swallowed Ryan’s figure. As a model, Ryan had to “treat [his] body like the fucking temple it is” – a sentence often repeated at 4am when Ryan was hungover and challenging himself to beat his record of three cheeseburgers and a large serve of cheese fries – but he’d always been naturally skinny. Like, worryingly so. At school, a counselor had tried to recruit Ryan into an out-patient program for anorexia. Ryan had just rolled his eyes and refused to eat the rest of his meal until the counselor had left.

 

“And,” Spencer said, “if you’re not, you call me and say, ‘Hey Spence, just thought I’d give you a heads up that I’m getting a little overwhelmed and miss your face because it’s the light of my life,’ and I’ll be like, ‘Hang on, Ryan, let me just finish my homework, and then I’ll get a flight out.’”

 

Ryan frowned, “I’m not a child.”

 

“No,” Spencer says, slowly, like he actually is talking to a child, which Ryan totally is not, “but, I know you. And you’re too proud to ask for help, and then you get stressed and leave the gas on for three days and lean against the sink to light a cigarette as you’re waiting for your toast, and you’ll burn the entire complex down.”

 

Ryan rolls his eyes, “You were the one who lit the cigarette.”

 

“Ah,” Spencer counters, actually beginning to read the newspaper in front of him, “but you are the one who left the gas on.”

 

And, Ryan doesn’t even particularly want to move to LA by himself, he’d much rather it if Spencer came along too, but maybe he is too proud because fuck Spencer for not thinking Ryan can take care of himself.

 

“I didn’t even know how to turn the gas on!” Ryan counters, but Spencer doesn’t have a chance to remind Ryan that _well, yes,_ Ryan actually did know how to turn the gas on because Ryan would try to make pancakes at 3am when he couldn’t sleep, but he’d accidentally set off the fire alarm and wake Spencer up with a panicky, “Don’t be mad, but–“, because their flight number is called.

 

**

 

An agent who works for the same company as Greta meets them at the airport and drives them to the apartment Ryan had chosen after coming out every few weeks to look at places to live. Of course, he’d chosen a dilapidated building that looked like it was falling apart, and, of course, he’d gotten a room on the sixth floor even with the knowledge that the elevator was not functional and probably hadn’t been since the late-80s.

 

Spencer shakes his head and says, “I thought the photos you sent me were a joke.”

 

Ryan smiles, “I like it. It has character.”

 

“You would say that,” Spencer glares, getting out of the car and retrieving his suitcase from the boot, “You pretentious indie mother-“

 

“Come on, then, let’s get you settled,” the agent interrupts, “and then I have to go back to the office. Greta sent you the details about your shoot tomorrow, right?”

 

Ryan nods, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check his emails, “I think so, didn’t she?”

 

He checks to Spencer for confirmation.

 

“Yeah, she did,” Spencer agrees, looking at the agent, “And I’ll make sure he’s there on time and isn’t hungover or,” he levels a glare at Ryan, “still drunk from his one-man congratulatory party.”

 

Ryan grabs his suitcase and enters his building, not willing to dwell on the incident to which Spencer is referring.

 

**

 

A few weeks pass and Spencer finally returns to Vegas, pinning a note to the refrigerator before he leaves.

 

Every morning when Ryan wakes up alone, he eats his cereal in front of the fridge and absolutely does not read and reread the words, “Look after yourself, asshole,” regretting the decision to move out here. He’s here for modeling, and he’s only modeling so he has time to pursue writing, after all that’s the only thing he’d ever really been interested in, but sometimes it’s too hard to look at it in that perspective.

 

Sometimes, it feels like Ryan’s just putting on all these clothes and pretending he’s living a lifestyle he doesn’t like, so other people can buy the shit that they don’t need, so they can be the kind of people the world doesn’t need anymore of. It makes him hate himself a little bit more each time he thinks about it, but then again, who doesn’t hate themselves these days?

 

He’s writing a book, but progress is slow, and he’s stuck, and sometimes he thinks about swallowing the bottle of anti-depressants that’s tucked away in the medicine cabinet, but then he rereads the note on the fridge and only takes one of the pills, like he’s meant to, instead of the lot of them. He’s been on anti-depressants for a few years now, but it was a real on-and-off relationship and it only became ‘on’ again – real hot and heavy – when Ryan’s dad died and he realized all of the unresolved issues that’d always stay like that.

 

He dumps his bowl in the sink and rereads the note, dragging his feet out the door and down to the sidewalk as he waits to be picked up. He has a shoot for Clandestine Industries, and Ryan knows he’s about to meet Pete Wentz, and it all feels a little surreal and a long way to come since the days he stood out at that skatepark where this all began, the name of Pete’s band adorning the front of his t-shirt.

 

He has a copy of Palahniuk’s _Invisible Monsters_ in his back pocket, and he’s sitting on the curb, contemplating whether or not he should pull it out, because he doesn’t want to start reading only to get into it and then have to stop, when an SUV mounts the curb, reverses and straightens up.

 

Someone’s pushing their way out of the driver’s seat before the engine’s even turned off.

 

Ryan stands up and brushes down his skinny jeans, but it doesn’t make them a whole lot cleaner. They’re ripped at the knees – from wear, not because Ryan spent $200 to get them that way, thank you very much – and the back pocket is one sticky seat away from falling off entirely. But, somehow, he can’t convince himself to buy a new pair of pants, and Spencer’s back in Vegas, and maybe this is why the entire Smith family was worried he wouldn’t be able to look after himself, he thinks.

 

“I am so sorry I’m late,” the driver of the SUV calls, throwing out his hand in a gesture to shake, “I’m Brendon, Pete’s assistant. He was running behind, organizing the shoot, so he asked me to pick you up. Of course, he called me ten minutes after he was meant to be here, and I was in class, and my phone was on silent.”

 

“It’s okay,” Ryan smiles, and he realizes that he actually doesn’t care, even though he usually would have given up waiting and retreated back to his apartment to yell at his agent over the phone by now, “Don’t worry about it.”

 

Brendon smiles and opens the door for Ryan, before returning to the driver’s seat and getting into the car himself, “Do you have any music preferences?”

 

Instead of waiting for Ryan’s answer, Brendon just chucks Ryan his iPod and tells him to pick whatever.

 

Ryan settles on _Smashing Pumpkins,_ and tells himself to calm down. His hands are shaking, and he’s not quite sure why, but there’s more caffeine in his blood stream then there probably should be, and he’s been feeling out of his depth ever since that first day he became a model.

 

So, those might both be contributing factors.

 

“So, what are you studying?” he asks, and he looks out the window because he knows it’ll give an air of indifference, but mostly it’s to hide the way he’s getting short of breath, the way he’s trying to distract himself from having a panic attack.

 

“I’m a music major. Pete says he’ll hook me up with a spot in Decaydance when I graduate,” he shrugs, “but he fired me again last week because I accidentally ordered him a caramel macchiato instead of an iced caramel macchiato, so who knows what’ll happen between now and then. What about you? Are you studying, or is this a full time gig?”

 

Ryan laughs, a short burst of air, “I just moved here from Vegas. I’m a writer, or I was a writer. I don’t even know,” and this time his laugh is louder, longer, more hysterical, “But, no, this isn’t forever.”

 

Brendon nods, warily eyeing Ryan before turning up the volume on the stereo. They drive in silence, and it’s not uncomfortable, at least Brendon doesn’t appear to be uncomfortable, but Ryan’s picking at a loose thread in his fingerless gloves and he’s counting the cars they pass by on the highway and he’s wondering how badly he would be hurt if he jumped out of the car.

 

“We’re here,” Brendon says, a good twenty minutes later, and when Ryan looks out the window he notices all the camera crew and equipment and people.

 

“Wow,” Ryan says, voice unaffected, but Brendon thinks he can see through the cracks.

 

“This is going to be big,” Brendon says, hesitantly, and he turns down the volume of the music so it’s barely background noise, “Pete doesn’t really do anything less than so-over-the-top-i-want-to-claw-my-eyes-out. Is there anything you need before the shoot starts? I’m in charge of keeping you happy, you know,” he smiles.

 

Ryan startles as he realizes it’s honest.

 

“I’m good, thanks,” he says, and opens the car door.

 

Pete’s standing in front of him before he even gets a chance to blink, “Ryan, finally,” Pete says, “we need to get started.”

 

“Sorry,” Brendon calls, coming around the car to where Ryan and Pete are starting, “Sorry, it’s my fault. I was in a lecture when you called and I’d parked on the other side of campus.”

 

Pete just waves his hands and grabs Ryan by the elbow, dragging him to makeup and wardrobe.

 

Ryan eyes Brendon as he walks away, and his throat feels like it’s about to close up again, and soon there’s people dipping their fingers into pots of eyeshadow and wiping it on his cheek, and he thinks: _Look after yourself._

 

And he’s putting on a pair of jeans and an eccentric hoodie that’s adorned with the bartskull, and there’s loud music playing and Ryan’s not quite sure of the source, and he can feel his spine crack in several places when he stretches, and he thinks: _Look after yourself._

 

“Are we ready?” Someone calls, but Ryan doesn’t recognize the voice.

 

“Pete?” Is the response, and Ryan thinks that might be Brendon.

 

Someone else shouts, “Where are the models?”

 

And Ryan thinks: _Look after yourself._

 

Pete appears in front of Ryan, and he grinning wide and saying “This looks great” while pulling at Ryan’s sleeve, and adjusting the placement of the bartskull buckle on Ryan’s belt, and Ryan blurts out, “I need to use the bathroom.”

 

Pete nods, tells him to be quick, tells him not to mess up his makeup or the clothes.

 

Brendon suddenly appears in front of him too, and he leads the way. He looks back at Ryan every few seconds, nervously assessing the situation before he settles on, “So, are you okay? You’re looking kind of pale.”

 

Ryan nods, an answer to Brendon’s question and a clear dismissal of the statement, before he locks himself in the bathroom and retrieves his phone from his pocket (despite being told not to have it turned on, let alone on his person), and frantically dials Spencer’s number.

 

He says, “Come on, pick up pick up pick up,” each ‘pick up’ more frantic than the last and he doesn’t know how long he’s been in there but Spencer’s not answering his call, and none of the redials, and soon Brendon’s knocking and Ryan can’t even breathe let alone think, _Look after yourself._

 

“Ryan? Is everything okay?” Brendon calls through the bathroom door.

 

“Just a minute,” he chokes, and he feels so stupid.

 

He just wants to go back to Vegas. Back to the hole he grew up in.

 

“Let me in,” Brendon says, but he’s already twisting the doorknob.

 

Ryan didn’t even remember to lock it, huh.

 

Brendon asks, “What?” just as Ryan’s opening his mouth, spitting the words, “Ask me anything.”

 

“Uh?” Brendon says, and there’s a frown on his face like he’s not quite used to the models having anxiety attacks in the bathroom, or maybe it’s just that he’s not used to the talent having an interest in him.

 

“Anything. Please.”

 

“What did you mean you were a writer?”

 

As far as distractions go, it’s a pretty good one. Ryan could easily get lost in talking about writing and books and Chuck Palahniuk and literary technique.

 

“I haven’t written anything decent since I started modeling,” he confesses, “I haven’t had the time, or I haven’t been motivated, or I haven’t had anything interesting happen to me to write about.”

 

Brendon leans against the door and locks it, considering, “Nothing interesting? I don’t believe that.”

 

He sinks to his knees before Ryan can even comprehend what’s going on.

 

**

Ryan’s twenty-one and sitting inside of _Starbucks_ at LAX _,_ rewriting the novel that’s already been rewritten enough to ensure it bears no resemblance to the events that inspired it. At first, he’d been annoyed that he didn’t have to go back for a reshoot, and then he was annoyed he wasn’t asked to do any other shoots with _Clandestine._ He’d thought about calling someone, his agent maybe, to get Brendon’s details, but then he decided not to. Instead, he wrote about it. Well, not _it._ But, it was certainly an interesting enough scenario to spark the beginning of a web of creativity.

 

With a few weeks off before any more shoots or work, Ryan decided it was time he head back to Vegas to see the Smith family. He hadn’t been back to Summerlin since he moved out here, but he’d seen Spencer a few times since. They talked every day, and Ryan was dealing better. He was off his anti-depressants again, and he was finally feeling good. He had caught up on all the books he wanted to read, and his writing was coming along well, even if he refused to send it to any literary agents, and modeling had somehow turned into hosting a show for MTV.

 

It was a far cry from that day at the _Clandestine Industries_ shoot.

 

His phone rings and he blindly answers it, already knowing who’s on the other line, “No, Spencer, I didn’t miss my flight. It was delayed.”

 

“Thanks for letting me know, man,” Spencer replies, and Ryan knows he’s shaking his head, “Were you just going to let me wait at the airport for you?”

 

Ryan clicks his tongue, backspacing a typo on his manuscript, “No, actually, I knew your mom would tell you to look up my flight number. She did it to me. Every single time you flew out here.”

 

“Someone had to make sure I wasn’t stranded in a city I didn’t know.”

 

Ryan’s just about to say, “I wouldn’t leave you stranded,” when Spencer counters the argument Ryan never had a chance to voice, “Mom told you my flight number, the time I was due in, and you still got it wrong. Plus, I knew your assistant programmed it into your Blackberry. I told her to do it, myself.”

 

“Ah,” Ryan says, like he’s finally realizing something, “So, that’s who keeps putting the reminders in there to call your mom. Wait, when did you talk to Z?”

 

“When she realized it was easier to get a hold of me than it was to get a hold of you.”

 

“See, I told you you should move out here and work for me.”

 

“Ryan, for the last time–”

 

In the reflection of his computer’s screen, Ryan can see someone reading over his shoulder.

 

“Spencer, I gotta go,” he hangs up and turns around, slamming his _MacBook_ shut in the same, fluid movement.

 

“Brendon?”

 

“I see you’re writing again,” Brendon answers, throwing himself down in the chair opposite Ryan, “I guess something interesting ended up happening to you after all.”

 

Ryan draws his eyebrows together and thinks of something to say.

 

He shrugs, “There was this one time at a shoot. The memory’s starting to wear off, though,” he smirks.

 

“Well,” Brendon smiles, grabbing Ryan’s coffee and taking a mouthful to which Ryan just raises his eyebrows, “Hopefully, something will happen again soon and you’ll get yourself a sequel.”

 

Ryan smiles.

 

“Hey, what’re you drinking? This is really good.”

 

Ryan waves a hand, “You can have it. I’m trying to cut back.”

 

“What’s been going on anyway? You’re too big for us Clandestine folks now?”

 

“There will always be a special place in my heart for you.”

 

Brendon laughs, loud and free of self-consciousness, “Yeah, I heard you never really forget about your first.”

 

Ryan frowns, “Oh, so that’s who you are! I was struggling to remember which one you were,” he pretends.

 

“Ha, ha,” Brendon says, but he’s still smiling, “So, what’re you doing? Flying out? Waiting for someone?”

 

Ryan recognizes the question for what it really is: _Are you picking up anybody? A boyfriend, perhaps?_

 

“Nah, I’m going back home for a few days. What about you?”

 

“Waiting for Pete,” Brendon answers, and he spins Ryan’s computer around and opens it up as if he doesn’t remotely care about Ryan’s boundaries, “but his flight was delayed and then he announced on Twitter that he’s about to land so soon there’ll be paparazzi everywhere and,” he pauses, and Ryan realises that he’s probably reading over the sentences Ryan had been editing, “Oh, you named a character Brendon? Tell me more about the event that inspired the manuscript.”

 

Ryan flushes red, and he reaches out to grab his computer, “Yeah, he’s a real ass.”

 

**

 

Ryan is twenty-two and throwing popcorn at Spencer as Spencer shows Brendon the photo he keeps of Ryan in his wallet. They’re watching Moulin Rouge, and Ryan’s meant to be asleep because he’s filming in the morning, but he’s comfortable and doesn’t want to go to bed, and if he does he just knows Spencer will start giving away details about every embarrassing incident Ryan ever got himself into as a child.

 

Ryan and Brendon have been together for around six months now. It started off as nothing more than sex – “to inspire the sequel!” Brendon had said – but then Ryan mumbled something about how he wanted it to be a long series, and he thought he might need a more constant source of inspiration.

 

Brendon, all sweat and loose-boned, had rolled over so he was half lying on top of Ryan and had asked, “Are you saying I’m your muse?”

 

Ryan had laughed, but he didn’t deny it.

 

“Hey, so,” Spencer starts, and he turns around so he’s facing Ryan, who’d been lying motionlessly – beside the occasional movement of his arm to throw the popcorn, of course ­– on the sofa, and says, “Now that you’re some big celebrity who hosts a show on MTV and has his face on every billboard in America, I think the paparazzi are starting to dig a little deeper than ‘Ryan Ross gains .3 pounds!” for information in their feature articles.”

 

Ryan pouts, “I didn’t gain .3 pounds,” and Brendon elbows him in the side.

 

“What’re they doing?” Brendon asks, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Ryan’s lap, “Paparazzi are the worst. They always call me ‘and friend’ whenever I’m in a photo with Pete.”

 

Brendon sulks, “Pete Wentz seen out in LA, ‘and friend’ carries his dirty laundry,” he makes a face, “Shane changed my contact name to ‘and friend’ in his phone.”

 

Spencer laughs, “You’ll have to make sure you aren’t caught in public holding Ryan’s laundry. They might think it’s a scandal.”

 

Brendon mocks offense, “I would never two-time my personal assistant position, Spencer Smith. It’s very important, you know.”

 

Spencer solemnly nods.

 

“But, seriously,” Ryan says, slapping Brendon’s hand away from where it’s creeping back into the popcorn bowl, “What are they doing?”

 

“I’ve spotted a few outside the apartment, and I’ve had a few people call the house looking for you.”

 

“Huh, weird,” Ryan says, chewing a piece of popcorn.

 

“My boyfriend,” Brendon says, faux-dreamily, “the celebrity.”

 

“Hey,” Spencer says, “You should get one of the paparazzi-journalist hybrids to write your autobiography. It could even mention Brendon,” at this, Brendon visibly perks up, “I think the working title should be: ‘Ryan Ross & friend’.”

 

Ryan and Brendon throw the rest of the bowl of popcorn at Spencer.

 

**

 

It’s the day Spencer comes out that Ryan realizes how ‘famous’ he’s actually become. Of course, he’d noticed his name being dropped more often in articles, and his Twitter feed was always full and he’d stopped being able to narrate his life on the Internet because people kept turning up and pretending it was by chance, but this took the cake.

 

Ryan realized something was wrong as soon as he picked up the phone. Spencer didn’t even bother with a greeting.

 

“So,” he launched straight into it, “I think the paparazzi finally found a story to use. Hopefully, they’ll use that photo you like, you know the one where–”

 

“Spencer?” Ryan asks, noticing his best friend is rambling, “What’s wrong?”

 

“I had someone over last night, and when they left this morning, there was a journalist parked across the street. I only realized because he’s been there every fucking day for the past week. How could I have been so stupid?”

 

“This isn’t bad,” Ryan says, because it’s not.

 

Sure, there are a few stories that had been printed saying Ryan and Spencer were dating (Ryan didn’t hide the fact he was gay, and one day Ryan had accidentally admitted in an interview he was looking forward to going home and spending time with ‘Spencer’, and he guesses to an outside perspective that could be interpreted as anything), but this was an easy fix. They could just clear it up, say Spencer’s just his best friend and obviously straight.

 

“Unless you’re trying to protect her,” Ryan says, and he realises he’s onto something when Spencer says nothing, “Is it someone we went to school with? What’s her name? It’s not Jac, is it?”

 

“Dude,” Spencer warns, and then more quietly, “Jon.”

 

 “Oh,” Ryan says, quietly, and he might be stunned and shocked but he still doesn’t forget the conversation he had with Spencer the night he came out, “Jon? That’s a funny name for a girl.”

 

The line stays quiet for a long time, and Ryan starts to feel guilty.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m just, surprised? You could have told me, you know.”

 

“I’m telling you now.”

 

“Okay, and if you hadn’t have been caught?”

 

“Ryan, I don’t know.”

 

“Okay. But, like, you know I don’t care, right?”

 

“No, I was worried my gay, male model best friend was homophobic,” and Ryan can sense the sarcasm down the phone.

 

“Luckily,” Ryan says, “my sincere best friend, I have the best publicist in the business, and I’ll make sure this doesn’t get out.”

 

“Thank you,” Spencer says.

 

“Any time,” Ryan smiles, “But, you could have told me sooner. You could have texted me. Even a picture message,” Ryan shudders at the mental imagery he suddenly gets, “maybe not a picture message.”

 

Spencer laughs, “I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you later, yeah? Tell Brendon I said ‘hi’.”

 

Ryan smiles to himself and hangs up, immediately dialing Greta who will get in contact with the publicist to smooth all of this over.

 

**

 

Unfortunately, publicists can’t always keep things out of the media, and instead of acting on the defense, they have to start doing damage control. Ryan wakes up with someone banging on his front door. He briefly wonders if it’s a journalist, but he doesn’t think they’d be bothered enough to climb all six flights of stairs just for an exclusive with Ryan.

 

“God damnit, Ryan,” Greta says, and she’s already perched on the corner of his lounge when he puts on his clothes and stumbles out, “I told Z to give you your fitness schedule. You should’ve been up. An hour ago. And you need to clean this place up. You’re a model, boy. You shouldn’t be this filthy.”

 

Ryan smiles and shrugs, “I gave myself a day off.”

 

“Lucky you,” she retorts, throwing down a pile of papers on the table, “But, you’re back on the clock.”

 

Staring up at him from the front cover of no less than three different newspapers, is a photo of Spencer locking lips with someone Ryan assumes in Jon.

 

The headlines all read some variation of the words: ‘model Ryan Ross’, ‘scandal’, ‘mystery man’ and ‘Spencer Smith’.

 

“Am I just a model to them?” Ryan asks, holding up one of the newspapers as evidence, “Why am I never a writer? Or a TV host? Am I just a pretty face? I should sue them for libel.”

 

Greta rolls her eyes, “You’re not a writer until you’re published, but don’t fear. I’ve sent your manuscript off to the best literary agents in town, just like you asked. Besides, do you even know what libel is? You can’t sue someone for calling you a pretty face when that’s how you make the companies thousands of dollars, sweetie. Now, be a good model and get dressed in those jeans you wore to the meeting with Terry Richardson, a nice button-down and a pair of leather shoes. You need to break up with your boyfriend, Ryan, because you can’t be dragged into a cheating scandal.”

 

“You, uh, do know Spencer isn’t my boyfriend, right? His name is Brendon. My boyfriend, I mean.”

 

Greta, to her credit, just nods, “Yes, but Brendon has been in New York with Pete for a month now and he’s not here for damage control, and even then you’d just be using him and I don’t think he’d appreciate that a lot. You need to call Spencer, publicly, and break up with him.”

 

Ryan rolls his eyes, “You know, his parents didn’t even know he was gay? I don’t even know if he’s gay. I promised him this wouldn’t get out.”

 

Greta looks down at the newspapers and eyes over Spencer, “We can’t do anything now that it’s out, Ryan. Vicky and I tried our best, but they were going to run the story no matter how many times we told them you and Spencer weren’t actually together. But, this is the contingency plan. You need to do this now.”

 

Ryan sighs and nods, forcing himself to get dressed in the clothes Greta told him to wear. They leave together, but Greta doesn’t accompany him to the local Starbucks; that’d be too obvious. Even if this does save his career, he wishes it would save Spencer too.

 

Instead he sends a single text to Spencer, “I’m sorry, S” and replies to one of Brendon’s ridiculous text messages before he presses the ‘call’ option on Spencer’s name.

 

“Ryan?”

 

Spencer’s tone sounds flat, but Ryan supposes that’s to be expected. No one is ever really excited when they’re outed in the media.

 

Brendon would probably be happy, though, Ryan thinks, if it meant they bothered to get his name right.

 

“Hey Spence,” Ryan says, and he notes the way there’s a few men with cameras starting to pay attention to him, even though they’re probably at the café for someone else, “I’m really sorry, but I think we need to talk.”

 

Spencer sighs, “Mom and dad called,” he replies, and Ryan knows that Spencer knows what’s going on. He’s just choosing to ignore it, to tell Ryan what Ryan needs to know but can’t reply to until he gets back to the safety of his apartment.

 

“I mean, it’s not you it’s me,” Ryan says.

 

At that, Spencer laughs, “Wait, so, we’re reported as being together for, like, ten years? Basically ever since you moved next door to me when I was 5, and that’s how you’re breaking up with me? ‘It’s not you it’s me?’ I’m a little offended.”

 

“That was 15 years ago,” Ryan corrects, “we’ve been together for 15 years.”

 

“No one gets together when they’re 5, Ryan.”

 

“What we had was special,” Ryan summarises, he thinks he read that somewhere.

 

“Okay. Anyway, mom and dad were pretty understanding. The first thing they asked me was if you were cheating on Brendon with me, and they were weirdly offended on his behalf.”

 

Ryan laughs, “He’ll be happy to hear that.”

 

A camera flash reminds him of where he is.

  
“I mean, I can’t be with someone who cheated on me, right? It’s not who I am, and that’s not the kind of example I want to set for the people who look up to me.”

 

“Does anyone even look up to you? I mean, besides Pete, who’s pretty short.”

 

Ryan rolls his eyes, “But, we can still be friends, right?”

 

“The best,” Spencer answers earnestly, “Goodbye, Ryan.”

 

**

 

The next morning Ryan wakes up to Brendon pounding on the front door.

 

“Do we have to have a talk?” Brendon says.

 

At first, Ryan’s worried, but then he sees Brendon’s smile and the newspapers that are bundled under his arm and he’s thinking _Jesus, what have they gotten wrong this time?_

 

The headlines read: Ryan Ross breaks boyfriend’s heart.

 

“I mean, if you want to break up with me you don’t have to involve Famous or the tabloids or any newspaper at all, even. A simple “I’m done” would suffice, as long as there was post-break-up sex.”

 

“That’s all I am to you?” Ryan asks.

 

His pajama pants are riding low on his hips as he corners Brendon against the wall, “You wouldn’t care if we broke up, as long as we had post break up sex?”

 

“I might care a little,” Brendon says, moaning when Ryan starts littering his neck with kisses, “Maybe a bit more than just a little.”

 

“That’s lucky,” Ryan says, and he slides down onto the ground, pressing his mouth against the crotch of Brendon’s jeans.

 

“Lucky?” Brendon hums, looking down at Ryan.

 

“Oh? Did I forget to mention? My books have been picked up. I have a lot more writing to do, you know?”


End file.
